Still of the Night
by Neon Kitsune
Summary: A series of moments in the night.  Includes preseries, HouseStacy, HouseWilson friendship, and possibly more as I get inspired.
1. Making and Shaping

**Notes:** Insomnia sucks, but one conversation doesn't really make a fic so I started writing other scenes to put with it. Some dialog is lifted from "Of a Thursday" by sydedalus. I'm pretty sure Wilson wasn't married to Julie yet when the infarction happened; it seems more likely that him paying too much attention to House's recovery contributed to his breakup with his second wife. I'm pretty sure there's going to be more to this, but here's what I've got for now.

* * *

Her accent was always stronger when she was sleepy. 

"It's after midnight, you should be asleep," she said.

"Yup," he said, most of his attention still on the screen. He could hear her stirring in the blankets behind him.

"You need to rest even if you can't sleep," she said.

"Don't want to waste time staring at the ceiling in the dark," he said, and heard her sigh.

"It's not wasting time to rest."

"They teach you that in law school?" he asked, a little more sharply than he'd intended. She was silent for a few seconds, then, "Greg. You haven't slept right since the first night I was here. Come to bed."

He sighed in his turn and swivled his chair to face her. The light from the screen illuminated her enough that he could see the frown. "This is how to kill it for another few months," he said. "Trust me. I've been dealing with this since I was a teenager. I'll feel like crap all day tomorrow, but then I'll be able to _sleep_." He watched her watching him, and something about the newness of having her in his bed made him feel he should add something. "I warned you about the insomnia. I told you it wasn't you," he said.

"You did," she acknowledged.

"It's not a big thing, Stace." It really wasn't--a few days of bad sleep every few months didn't bother him, and he knew how to make it stop.

"You could try pills."

He shook his head. "Over-the-counter's useless and all the prescription stuff's too easy to get addicted to."

She watched him for a few more moments and then shook her head as she clambered out of bed. She was wearing one of his t-shirts and a pair of flannel pajama bottoms, but she looked just as sexy as she had in the little silk thing she'd worn her first night in his apartment.

"You don't have to get up," he protested, as she walked over to him and planted a kiss on top of his head.

"Not for you, but I need to see a man about a dog," she said. He could hear that she was smiling.

"Good to know where I rate," he grumbled for show. She laughed softly at him as she made her way out of the bedroom.

* * *

The phone shrilled and James rolled over, groping for it. He was less than half awake but years of medical training had taught him how to act when he wasn't fully aware. "Hello?" he mumbled into the handset. 

"James, thank God," the caller said. It was Stacy, and she sounded frantic. James felt himself waking up, fast. "Something's really wrong with Greg."

"What—" he began, but she cut him off.

"I don't know!" she said. James wasn't sure he'd ever heard her near tears before. "He gave me a list to read to you. I don't know if I have these right, but they're...myoglobinuria, ARF, rhabdomyolysis, alkaline diuresis, hyperkalemia."

"Oh my God," James said, sitting upright to swing his legs out of bed.

"What does it mean?" she asked. He would have sworn her voice couldn't get any more tense, but it managed somehow.

"Are you with him right now?" James asked. He needed to get a baseline, at least.

"Yes," she said.

"Okay, go put your fingers on his neck," he said. "I need you to tell me how fast his heart's beating. You there?"

"Yeah," Stacy said, and there was a pause. "It's slow." She sounded a tiny bit calmer; like House, she functioned better when she was _doing_ something. It was probably one of the reasons they got along so well.

"Is his breathing slow too?"

"I think so," she replied, after another pause. "What's wrong with him? He looks horrible. Tell me what those words mean. Is he dying? He looks like he's dying. Oh my God."

"It's okay," James said to cut off her flow, keeping his voice in the soothing tone he used for giving patients bad news. If he let her know he was worried too, she'd break down completely--Stacy was a hell of a person and tough as nails, but she wasn't a doctor and she loved House so deeply, and James could picture what his friend had to look like with the list of conditions she'd read him. "Don't panic." He wanted to say, 'he's not dying,' but he honestly didn't know if that was true. "Is he awake?"

"Greg," she said, her voice a little muffled and away from the receiver. "Greg, wake up...wake up! Greg!" She came back and said, "No, he's not. Oh my God. What's wrong with him?"

"He'll be all right," James said, still calm. "Listen, I need you to call an ambulance and make sure they take him to our hospital. Read them the list you read me. Don't panic—he needs you to stay calm. Stay calm and dial 911. I'm going to hang up now so you can do that, okay?"

"James, what's wrong with him?" she demanded. James was pretty sure she hadn't really been listening; she needed some information or she wasn't going to be able to focus.

"His kidneys aren't working—but he'll be okay," he said. "Call 911 now. I'm going to hang up, okay?" He waited for what seemed like too long.

Finally Stacy said, "Okay," and he could hear that she meant it. Only after he'd hung up did he realized he hadn't said goodbye.

* * *

James's eyes snapped open and he stared at the ceiling, wondering what had woken him. He had almost drifted back to sleep when he heard it again--a strangled cry from the direction of House's room. He was on his feet and moving before he had time to think about it. 

They'd fallen into a pattern of leaving a nightlight on--House made snide comments about monsters in the closet, but actually it was so neither of them was blinded when James had to come in in the middle of the night. Well, House made snide comments when he could be bothered to talk at all; since Stacy's departure, the prickly shell he'd retreated into after the infarction had grown poison spines, and possibly laser-guided missiles and a portable minefield. James seemed to be the only one who could chivvy him out, and even that was rare. Not that House had been sweetness and light before, but "abrasive bastard" seemed to have become his default rather than something he put on when someone irritated him.

James was spending most nights at House's apartment, and though Bonnie had been understanding at first her patience was starting to wear thin. But that wasn't relevant right now; right now James had a patient in pain. He pushed House's bedroom door open to find what he'd expected to see: House was lying on his side, clutching his bad thigh and rubbing at it with a motion James was all too familiar with. Painfully familiar, even, though it was more painful for House. He was trying not to moan, but he was failing, which was what had woken James up.

James sat on the bed and took over the massage, murmuring the comforting nonsense he used with suffering patients. It was a long time before House's breathing eased, though James resolutely did not look at the alarm clock on the bedside table; he had a theory that not knowing the real time kept him from feeling as tired in the morning.

When House finally uncurled, James offered him half a smile. "Maybe it's time to admit that the neurotonin isn't working," he said.

"You think?" House asked roughly.

"In the morning I'm writing you another Vicodin scrip," James said. House groaned and screwed his eyes shut.

"I'm not one of your bald-headed pets," he said.

"Good thing, too--they don't need any more nausea." James paused, considering how to phrase this. "House--the Vicodin _was_ working for you. It let you move around, get things done. It's not a long-term solution, but it'll get you back on your feet till we can find something that is."

"Yeah," House said, sounding defeated, and James raised an eyebrow at him. House glared back, though the effort was not one of his best; he was far too wrung out from the muscle spasm. "I'm not an idiot, Wilson," House said.

James raised his hands in mock defensiveness. "Heaven forbid I say you were." For a few moments neither spoke. "Do you need something to help you get back to sleep?" James asked at last.

"You could hit me over the head," House said. "Short of that, I think I'm up for the duration." He sighed and shifted restlessly, wincing as the movement jarred his leg. "At least with the Vicodin I'll be able to sleep. Insomnia sucks."

"I wouldn't know," James said dryly. He'd never had any trouble sleeping, even keyed up or anxious or guilt-ridden.

"Help me up," House said abruptly, and started wiggling closer to the edge of the bed. "I wanna play."

James rolled his eyes and said, "Your neighbors aren't going to appreciate that at this hour."

"My neighbors can bite me. They have no culture anyway," House said. "Help me up." Resigned, James did as he was told and they began the laborious process of getting House off the bed, out of the bedroom and into the living room to install him on the piano bench. They were both breathing hard by the time it was done.

House lifted the cover from the keys and put his hands on them. "You can sleep in the bedroom if this is too much," he said, staring at his fingers.

"I can sleep through a brass band," James said. House glanced slyly up at him and played four notes: da-da-da-_dum_, the opening to Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, a piece of music not known for its restraint or restful qualities. James gave him the blandest smile he could muster and went back to the couch. "Night, House," he said as he rearranged his blankets.

James fell asleep to the delicate notes of _Clair de Lune_.

* * *

It was after dark and long after business hours when House let himself into his office. His new office. Had his name on the door and everything, that was how you could tell it was his. 

He stood in the middle of the room, just looking at it. It was way too bare, though unlike Wilson he wasn't going to be terrifying his patients (if any of his patients were ever in the office, which a kind and just God would keep from happening) with posters for, of all things, Hitchcock movies. But he had a lamp at home that would look good in the corner, and maybe he could get a couch or a comfy chair or something.

Immersed in planning, he didn't hear her heels ticking their way down the hall until the door swung open behind him. Even when he realized she was there, he didn't turn around; turning was awkward and he didn't feel like craning his neck.

"Dr. House, you're here early."

"Dr. Cuddy, you're here late," he replied.

"Your first day isn't till Monday," she said softly, coming to stand next to him. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

"I wanted to take a look," he said. "It's nice. No TV, but I can fix that."

"You're a department head now," she said, a note of exasperation creeping into her voice. House was happy to hear it, because before she'd sounded far too close to understanding. "You have better things to do with your time than watch soaps."

"I'm not technically a department head till Monday. For now I can watch all the soaps I want." She shot him a look, but said nothing. After a second he asked, "How'd you get the Board to sign off on this anyway?"

"Gave them a song and dance about the prestige the hospital would get from having the first Diagnostics department in the U.S.," Cuddy said, sounding very offhand about it. House did not actually snort, but he figured she knew what he meant from his body language because she continued, "And then I mentioned that you had to diagnose yourself, and that you did it with a potassium level so high you shouldn't even have been conscious, much less thinking. They got the point."

"The point being...?"

"That we were damn lucky you didn't sue us into oblivion," Cuddy said. "And that you're a genius, and an asset to this hospital." She paused. "Now have I stroked your ego enough?"

"I can think of a few other things you could stroke if you wanted," House said, waggling his eyebrows at her. She rolled her eyes.

"In your dreams," she said. "Go home. Come back on Monday. You can start looking at C.V.s for your staff."

House shrugged and said, "Think I'm gonna stay here a while. Break the place in, if you know what I mean." He hobbled towards his desk and settled into his chair, giving her enough of a leer to make his meaning plain, and she rolled her eyes again.

"Whatever," Cuddy said. "As long as you're here Monday morning, you can sleep on the floor for all I care."

"Did I say anything about sleeping?" House asked innocently. "I didn't think I did." She was fighting down a smile, he could see it.

"Don't wanna know," she said, and turned on her heel. At the door she paused and glanced over her shoulder at him. "House, you do own a lab coat?"

"I think so," he said. "One of those white things, right?"

"Yeah. Bring it with you. You might even consider wearing it."

"I promise I will consider it," House said solemnly.

"Don't make me regret this," Cuddy said. House just looked at her. She'd known what he was like when she went to bat for him; it wasn't his job to make her life easier. "Right," Cuddy said, and sighed. "See you Monday, House."


	2. Ships that Pass

There was only so much anyone could be expected to take, James decided as he listened to one of Julie's friends telling a long and not-very-coherent anecdote about a camping trip. It wasn't that he didn't _like_ Julie's friends--though even in his head that sounded a little defensive--it was just that they had a slightly different idea of what was really interesting than some of James's did. OK, if he was going to be honest with himself, it was that he knew very well House would have found them completely boring.

But at least James, unlike House, wasn't going to announce that fact to their faces.

Instead he excused himself to the bathroom and set the alarm on his phone while he was in there. He had to endure another six minutes of the camping trip story when he got back, but then the phone went off.

James let an irritated expression cross his face as he dug the phone out of his pocket. Unlike House, Julie wouldn't see through that expression and wouldn't notice that she couldn't hear whoever was supposed to be on the other end.

"Dr. Wilson," he said, getting out of his chair again so as not to disturb the camping anecdote. _He_ didn't want to hear it, but that didn't make it polite to interrupt more than he had to. James paused, pretending to listen, then said, "Can't you--look, Jules and I have guests." He paused again and let some worry mix with the irritation. "I see. No, it's fine. I'll be right there." He snapped the phone shut and turned to his wife, across the living room, who looked a little irritated herself.

"Hospital?" she mouthed. James nodded. She looked less irritated, which meant she was glad it hadn't been House.

"I'm sorry," he said, and spent an extra few seconds to make his way around the room to her side. He bent and kissed her. "I might be late," he said softly.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Patient's meds are out of whack, he's having some strange reactions," James said. "The on call tonight's a little green and he's not handling it well." This was even half-true--Fry was a new addition to the department--but James made a mental note to compensate the man for the small slander.

Julie smiled at him, her upset melting into sympathy. "Well, don't stay too long. You've got presents to open in the morning," she murmured, with an undertone that made it perfectly clear what she meant, and James gave her a sincere smile. She was so sweet, and very sexy; it was just that her friends bored him cold. So he'd get out, and she'd have fun with her friends, and everyone would be happy.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," he promised, and kissed her again.

On the way to House's place he stopped to pick up Chinese food.

* * *

Lisa got to the room just in time to catch him coming out of it. She made no effort to walk quietly, but he didn't seem to notice her.

"Wilson," she said, not particularly loud, and he jumped as if he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar and whirled.

"Cuddy--Lisa--" he stammered, as if she didn't know exactly who was on the other side of that door; as if he hadn't told her what he planned to do and she hadn't approved it.

"How is he?" she asked, jerking her chin at the room to make her meaning plain. Wilson sighed and rubbed the back of his neck the way he did when he was tired.

"Asleep, for now. We'll see how long it lasts. I put an IV in him, it'll keep him from getting dehydrated at least." He sighed again. "He's waiting for Foreman and Chase to get back with the kid's cat."

Lisa blinked at him--this was a piece of news House, naturally, hadn't bothered to share with her. "He can't bring a cat into the hospital," she said, trying to be calm.

"The cat's dead," Wilson expanded. "Foreman and Chase get to dig it up, then he's going to do a necropsy."

"And he thinks the dead cat's relevant somehow?"

"Yeah," Wilson said. Lisa paused and sucked air through her teeth before she asked her next question.

"He broke his own hand, didn't he?"

"Yeah," Wilson said again. "Pain gating. I don't know what he used, but the fractures weren't complex." Lisa looked him over carefully and half a rueful smile quirked her lips; he looked just as uneasy and guilty as she felt.

"I'm not even going to ask whether you think this whole thing was a bad idea," she said.

"_My_ bad idea," Wilson said, a grim tone edging his voice.

"Yeah, well, I'm the one letting him work," she said.

Wilson winced and said, "He's not doing a bad job of it, all things considered."

Lisa gave him an incredulous look. "Yeah, he's only almost killed the kid, trashed his liver, and nearly lost him the sight in one eye." She paused, and Wilson hiked one eyebrow at her. "Which is par for the course on one of his cases," she conceded after a moment. She rubbed her forehead and said softly, "He came into my office to yell at me this afternoon." Wilson just looked the question at her--she was getting way too good at reading his facial expressions, his and House's both--and she pulled the little bottle out of her lab coat pocket, handing it over. Wilson read the label and his eyebrows rose, threatening to merge with his hairline.

"I wouldn't have thought Foreman had it in him," he said.

"House thought I put him up to it," she said.

"Did you?" Wilson asked. She narrowed her eyes at him and he shrugged. "I didn't think so, but... They're...?"

"All there," she confirmed. "I counted twice. One...I think he took one and then made himself bring it back up. But it didn't dissolve, didn't get into his system, if so. It was just a little blurry at the edges."

Wilson leaned against the glass wall, blowing out his cheeks. "Oh boy."

"What now?" Lisa asked. Not that she intended to let Wilson make all the plans for the next little while, but she needed to hear what he had in mind before she decided if anything needed to be changed.

"Now, I let him sleep until the cat shows up," Wilson said. "I'll take him down to the morgue and let him do his necropsy. If I can get him back to sleep after, I will, but I doubt it--at least, if he finds anything, and we better hope he does. Because if not, all we'll have done is buy the kid a few more days till this liver goes too." This sounded as sensible as anything, so Lisa just nodded.

"I'll check and make sure he's still asleep," Wilson said after a moment, and Lisa smiled gratefully at him. She wanted to look in on House, but it wouldn't do to let him know she knew what Wilson was up to. "Don't tell him I was here," she said, and Wilson nodded, pushed himself off the wall, and turned back to slide the door open a few inches.

* * *

The trip home was long and not particularly relaxing; House had to ask Cameron to drive because his leg wasn't up to managing the pedals. The rally, though vastly entertaining, had involved a whole lot of walking and standing, and though House was in a good mood and didn't really care that he hurt, he still didn't want to run off the road or into a tree if the leg decided to spasm. So he leaned his seat back, plugged in his iPod, and let Cameron drive.

The car was really too dark to get in any quality staring (the whole thing about being like a nice piece of art hadn't been a complete smokescreen), but House gave it the old college try. Cameron didn't seem to mind; in fact she startled him considerably by singing along with some of his music. Not anything truly obscure, but still--who'd have thought that Allison Cameron, Princess of the Pretty People, would be familiar with King Crimson? And it was the greatest hits collection (if Crimson could be said to have any "hits"), which meant she knew more than one of their albums.

When the intro to the song started playing, House didn't need a lot of light to see her shoulders tense. He frowned, then registered that it was the pulse-and-synthesizer of "Heartbeat", which made a whole lot of sense. He hit the Next button on the iPod without looking.

"Thanks," Cameron said, sounding a little strangled. "I didn't know the track order for this album."

House fiddled with his gadget for a second, debating, but the need to know was just too strong. "Lemme guess. That was _your song_." He realized with some surprise that the question didn't sound particularly sardonic.

There was a pause long enough that he was pretty sure that, A, he was right and B, she wasn't going to answer. But then she said, "Yeah. He was a big fan. The last...right before he got too sick to go out anymore, we went to one of their concerts."

"It's a good song," House said. Which sounded entirely too sincere, so he added, "If you like sappy."

"Yeah," Cameron said, her face calm as a statue's. "Can you back up?"

He narrowed his eyes at her profile. After a second she said, "I'm not going to cry, if that's what you're worried about." House shrugged and did as she asked, since he actually did like the song (not that he ever would have admitted it out loud). Adrian Belew's voice filled the car, _I need to feel your heartbeat so close it feels like mine_, and House watched Cameron's face as the lights from oncoming traffic slipped over it like water over marble.

* * *

When the waiter came Allison ordered ravioli--something fatty and filling so she'd have an excuse to skip dessert. This had suddenly turned into a meal she didn't really want to extend with coffee and sweets. 

She managed to hold out until their salads arrived before the silence got to be too much for her. "So," she said, aware that her tone was a little bit brittle, "what wines do you like?" She speared a tomato slice with unnecessary force and took her time about bringing it to her mouth, but when she finally looked up House was still staring at her.

"I'm not really a wine kinda guy," he said at last. "But I really hated the second _Charlie's Angels_ movie."

"Me too," she said.

"You actually watched it?" House asked and he was doing that thing--that thing that said he was revising his opinion of her, which was bad, because it was one of the things he did that fascinated her. So she deflected it.

"My little brother made me watch them both," Allison said, rolling her eyes to show her opinion of brothers and their tastes in movies.

"Oh."

They got through the rest of the meal on stilted film criticism (Allison went out of her way to praise _When Harry Met Sally_..., just to watch House's wince) and a quick side trip into favorite music (She almost forgot herself and smiled when he mentioned "Title of the Song" in dismissing her presumed teenage musical tastes, but quashed it in time). House waved aside her offer to leave the tip and helped her into her coat, and opened the car door for her. They drove back to her apartment in silence, which Allison managed to resist breaking, and he walked her to the base of her building's stairs. She was pretty sure he'd have forced himself up to the front door as well, but she turned and smiled brightly before he could start up.

"Well, thank you for a lovely evening," she said.

There was a long pause, and then House said, "_This_ is why I say everybody lies. That wasn't a lovely evening." He was tapping his cane on the pavement, which meant he was either puzzled or uncomfortable; Allison hoped desperately (if a little guiltily) for uncomfortable, because if he was puzzled she'd never get rid of him.

She took a deep breath and said, "No, it wasn't. But that's what you say when you're dropped off after a date." She shrugged. "Unlike some, I have manners."

House moved in a half-step closer and looked almost down his nose at her. "Do those manners include a goodnight kiss for the man who bought you dinner?" he asked, with a half-hearted leer.

"Yes," Allison said, and felt a bit of satisfaction when his eyes widened slightly. "But you wouldn't want to encourage me, would you, House?" She held his gaze until he looked away. "Goodnight, House," she said, and turned to start up the steps. She was putting her key in the lock when she heard him say, "Goodnight, Cameron." Allison didn't pause and didn't look back, but when she got to her apartment she couldn't resist looking out the window. His car was gone.

Allison went into the bathroom to wash her makeup off and stared at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were a little red.

**

* * *

**


End file.
